“They will be back of us, sir, and if we can get in the front cockpit fast the bomb compartment, which is as high as our heads, will protect us from shots while we are taking off. They’ll ricochet off the steel runway, I believe, at the angle of fire they’ll shoot at. Besides, they’ll hold their fire at first for fear of hitting Hayden.”
Graves threw his untasted cigar away.
“We’ll do it,” he said calmly. “There are men with field-glasses over on that mountain there keeping watch. If we fail, all hope of getting Hayden alive and without publicity will be gone, but no man up here will get out. All the routes are blocked, if they only knew it. It will mean a lot of men killed capturing this party, and our swoop on Hayden’s gang all over the country will be incomplete, but we’ll have done our best.”
“Let’s get the motor started then, right away,” said Broughton. “It’s getting dark already.”
The western sky was red as fire still, but the sun itself had dipped behind the mountains and the valleys were filling with purple shadow.
The motors were started without trouble. The roar of them brought every one out of the shack. Luck was with the flyers, for only three men came close to the ship—Hayden, Somers, and little Meyer. All the rest of the men stayed near the shack, fifty yards away from the Martin. The machine-gun holdup appeared to be unnecessary. The three men stopped about ten yards away.
Graves walked up to them.
“We have the ship fixed, and have decided to try a take-off,” he said.
The comfort this brought to the three agitators was obvious. Graves looked around and beckoned to Hinkley, who strolled up casually. Broughton was idling the motors, now, and preparing to climb out.
Graves went a few steps to meet the flyer.